Drabbles
by carouselfancy
Summary: A place for all my Alistair/Olivia Cousland drabbles and prompt fills.
1. Hold My Hand

"Maker, I don't think I can do this."

Alistair shifted his weight from foot to foot and reached up to pull at the high fur collar at his throat. Olivia tutted, swatting the hand away, before returning her fingers to the gold clasp of his cloak.

"Alistair, I'm never going to get this to hang straight if you don't _stop fidgeting_." She pulled the fabric further over his shoulder. He sighed heavily, but fell still.

"I don't know the first thing about holding court. What if somebody asks me to... to bless their cabbages or something, I don't know, and I end up starting some massive war?"

Olivia laughed, closing the clasp and smoothing her hands over his shoulders. She looked up to his worry-stricken face with an affectionate smile. "How would that even happen?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. That's just the sort of thing that happens when I lead."

Her smile only widened. She draped her arms over his shoulders to clasp them around his neck. "I was told you'd end up without any pants. I plan to hold you to that, you know."

The worried frown persisted, and when he spoke, his voice was fraught with doubt. "What if I'm a terrible king?"

"You won't be." He opened his mouth to argue, and she shook her head, silencing him with a kiss to his chin. "You're smart, you're strong, and you're kind. You've led them before, and you can do it again. And if you ever doubt that, I'll be right there beside you. All you have to do is reach out and hold my hand."

Finally, he smiled, small and tentative, and rested his forehead against hers with a tiny nod.

They could hear the herald on the other side of the door now, announcing them to the court, and they parted to stand shoulder to shoulder. When the doors finally opened to reveal his bowing subjects, she felt the warmth of his large hand close around hers, and she smiled.


	2. Monster Hunter

**Monster Hunter**

 **Summary:** Alistair Theirin: King by day, the world's greatest monster hunter by night  
 **Notes:** One-shot for King Alistair Day, during Alistair Week on Tumblr. Have some nice, teeth-rotting fluff.

* * *

"The Bannorn is growing bolder, Your Majesty."

Alistair looked up with an arched brow from the wordy parchment he'd been studying. His steward was strolling into his study with an enormous stack of documents clutched in his hands, and his eyes widened in alarm when the man deposited them soundly on his desk. He pulled the end of his quill from between his teeth and studied the pile for a long, incredulous moment.

"Please tell me these are not _all_ marriage proposals." His voice was stern and impatient even to his own ears, and he fanned the corner of the pile with his thumb.

The steward gave a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. "Indeed, Your Majesty." He gave an apologetic bow at Alistair's deeply beleaguered sigh. "Your palace holds within it the most sought-after hand in all of Ferelden. Every noble in your country with an unmarried son is clamoring at your door, so to speak."

"My daughter is more than just a hand," he snapped. The steward blanched at his uncharacteristic tone. Alistair sighed again, and scrubbed at his face with his hands. He desperately wished Olivia had not had to leave for Amaranthine this week, of all weeks. She was much better at intimidating nobles than he was. He thought he had finally found his footing in all this king business, but this issue of marriage proposals had his head spinning. "She's only just turned three years."

"I'm rather surprised they waited as long as they did," the steward remarked wryly. "It is not rare for a princess to be promised as early as her first year. With all the... excitement, they've been a bit distracted."

Alistair snorted. Distracted was not quite the right word. More likely, they had been waiting for a better option. The Bannorn had been in a collective tizzy when he had declared his first child his heir, despite her gender. He had been reminded to the point of exhaustion that the line of King Calenhad had always been male, despite his repeated insistence that he simply didn't care. When they'd had their son a short year later - rather sooner than they had intended, but they had gotten a bit carried away in the knowledge that the Taint no longer loomed over them - he had been more than happy to assert that the order of succession had not changed.

Apparently the joke was on him.

He flipped through the stack of documents, more unimpressed with each house crest that was revealed. "Ha!" He rolled his eyes at the crest of Oswin and shoved the stack of documents away. "If Bann Loren expects me to take him seriously, he's a bigger fool than I thought."

The other man smiled. "The marriage of the Crown Princess of Ferelden creates the most powerful political alliance in the country. Every noble will be offering any asset they have to you for the chance to raise their status so high."

He propped his chin up on his fist, glaring at the offending documents. Every arl, bann and minor noble in his country was throwing gold and favors at him; he held their fates in the palm of his hand.

All he had to do was trade his child like so much chattel.

There was a soft knock at the door of his study, and he gave a distracted grunt of acknowledgment. After a long moment of silence, the door opened, and the tentative face of a young lady-in-waiting appeared.

"I'm deeply sorry to disturb you, Your Majesty, but - you told us to come get you for anything at all and - "

His face snapped up to her, a questioning eyebrow arching high on his forehead.

"Your Majesty, my Lady requests your presence most urgently."

Alistair unfolded himself gingerly from his chair and stretched his arms high over his head. His back cracked in three places and he wondered just how long he had been hunched over his paperwork. With deft fingers, he unhooked the clasps of his jerkin and deposited it on the back of his chair, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows. He hadn't realized just how oppressive the heat of the room was until he no longer had the press of heavy leather against his back.

"Your Majesty?" The steward looked to him questioningly, and Alistair lifted the stack of documents into the other man's arms before starting casually toward the door of his study.

"Get rid of them."

The steward looked surprised. "I - should I not see if the Queen might like to look over them first? She - "

The King turned and plucked the bundle from his hands, before strolling briskly to the blazing hearth and depositing it into the flames without a second glance. The sound of soft, fluttering parchment gave way to the crackle of blooming red fire. He gave the steward a last, dismissive wave of his hand before exiting the study, the lady-in-waiting shuffling behind him.

The hour was late, and the Royal Wing was silent but for his determined footsteps echoing against the flagstones. His conversation with the steward had left him initially unnerved, but now, as he walked the halls of the palace, a sense of calm washed over him. He felt tall. Powerful. His reign as king had so far been tumultuous, fraught with indecision and doubt. But he was finding more and more that where his family was concerned, that doubt ceased to exist.

It did not take long for him to reach the nursery. The footman outside the door gave him a low bow, and he waved him off before disappearing through the door.

"Papa!" He had barely taken more than a step into the room when a tiny missile barreled toward him, and he swept her up into his arms with a large grin. The halo of her wild black curls stuck out in every direction, and her enormous brown eyes were wide as she looked at him.

"My love, it's very late. Why are you still awake?" He gave her the sternest look he could, but knew his persistent smile ruined the effect. She threw her tiny arms around his shoulders and buried her face into his neck.

"There's a monster!" His brow furrowed, and he looked to her lady-in-waiting with questioning eyes. The lady gave him a small smile and a shallow curtsy.

"I told her there's no monster, but she insisted that you're the only one who can find them, Your Majesty."

His grin widened, and he looked back to his daughter, who nodded with great assurance. "Well then," he announced, in his grandest king voice, "we'll just have to make sure to scare it off!" He crossed the room to her bed and deposited her into the nest of blankets, before darting off to a nearby corner and sweeping up a small wooden sword with a flourish. She laughed, high and musical, and the sound never failed to make his heart soar.

Alistair pointed the sword flamboyantly at the large wardrobe near her bed, giving her a questioning look, and she nodded with wide eyes. He glanced back at the lady-in-waiting and gave her a kind smile. "Lady Aline, I think we have this well in hand." She blushed, curtsied and left them to their game. Alistair marched toward the wardrobe and threw open the doors with an exaggerated roar, jabbing the small sword into the darkness with wide sweeps. His tiny commander shrieked and bounced in her excitement.

"The evil monster is slain, Your Highness!" He gave her a sweeping bow, his nose almost touching the floor, and she giggled. He gently closed the wardrobe doors once more and placed the small sword on her bedside table, before perching beside her on the bed. "Do you think you'll be able to sleep now?"

She crawled into his lap, curled up against his chest, and he smiled, utterly in awe of this perfect creature he had helped create against all odds. She gave a wide yawn and nodded. "Do Princess Ellie!"

He chuckled. "Again? Aren't you tired of that one yet?"

She shook her head, her eyes drifting closed. Alistair smiled and leaned against her headboard, pulling her close to him and surrendering to a large yawn of his own. "There once - " Another yawn. "There once was a very beautiful princess named Princess Ellie. She was strong, and kind, and beloved by everybody in her kingdom." Her breathing had become slow and heavy, and his heart clenched with adoration. He smoothed her wild hair. "She was going to be a great queen someday, and she would marry whoever she wanted. Or nobody at all, that would be fine too."

He paused and frowned. "And nobody was ever going to make her do anything she didn't want to do." She snuffled. Alistair pulled her tighter against him, shaking his head at himself. His own eyes were feeling heavy, his long day catching up with him, and he allowed them to drift closed.

"One day, Princess Ellie rode her great griffin into the woods..."


	3. Laugh

He counts the days by the moments like this one; when it is just the two of them, and he does not have to endure the remarks of their companions, nor the exhaustion of battle; when they are wound tightly together, kissing and talking and making love and starting over again; when their walls come down and they can be the truest versions of themselves they know.

There is divinity to be found in nights like these. Alistair would trade every lost day of his misbegotten childhood for a thousand more moments just like this one.

He's lying on his back in his bedroll, his head propped up against his knapsack so that he can look down at where Liv is draped across him. Her arms are folded across his chest and her chin is pressed on top of them, and she is looking down at him with the same stupid expression he knows he's wearing. He lazily trails his fingers across the silken expanse of her back, and he thinks idly that if he _does_ become king, he's going to make it against the law for her to ever wear clothing again.

When she bursts into musical laughter, he realizes he has said the thought out loud.

If laughter could be made physical, could be turned into something tangible like a thread, Alistair would weave hers into a blanket and wrap himself so tightly within it that he could never be unraveled. He would turn it into bricks and build himself a home within it, so that he will never feel displaced again. He will have to make do, instead, with devouring it, drinking in every lovely chuckle with lips that will never tire of tasting her.

* * *

 **NOTE** : I know I haven't updated _Spitfire_ in a long, LONG time, but I wanted to make sure I declared that it is NOT dead, I am still very much invested in this story and this character. I'm just having a bit of writer's block that I'm trying to work through with some drabbles, and I also have another project coming up for these two that has gotten me a little bit distracted, oops! So bear with me, I'm not dead I swear.


	4. Surrender

Why do I keep accidentally killing Alistair? the world may never know.

* * *

He really should have seen this coming.

Of course there would be no easy out, no simple "No thanks," and a wave goodbye. This was politics, and those who could not play the game did not come out of it alive.

To her credit, Anora shows no weakness, no regret, as she stares down at him. The guards wasted no time in detaining him, pushing him to his knees with a force he had no will to fight.

"Anora!" He can tell she is trying to sound forceful, but he can hear the terror that clips her words and the sound is like a knife in his gut. Liv pushes her way through the guards to glare fiercely at the new Queen, her hand on the hilt of her dagger. The guards turn their weapons on her immediately and Alistair can't help the shout of alarm that escapes him. Liv's lip curls in disgust.

"You have your crown! I've given you what you wanted, Alistair is no threat to you!" He can hear her desperation, and he knows by the knit of Anora's brow that the queen can as well.

"As long as he breathes, there is an alternative candidate for the throne. This land must be united under me, and I will not have a potential rival." The two women face off for a long, silent moment, and he is unsure whom is more intimidating. Liv would probably be more fearsome if not for the tears shining in her eyes. Alistair tries to shift against the hands restraining him, to straighten his back for a better look at her, but the butt of a pole arm's shaft is jabbed into his spine, forcing him to hunch forward.

"Please Anora… _please_ … let him go." He almost does not hear her, she is so quiet in her pleading. He doesn't need to see Anora's face to know that she is unaffected.

"Take him away."

Alistair is jolted into standing, and he smiles instinctually when his eyes land on the woman he loves. Her tears have spilled over now, streaming down her cheeks in rivulets that his fingers itch to brush away.

She only allows herself the moment of weakness before she bares her teeth and her hands fly to the hilts of her weapons. "I _gave_ you that crown," she snarls at the Queen, "and I have no qualms about taking it back." She does not care that the guards are still pointing their weapons at her, ready to cut her down at a word. And Alistair knows without a doubt that she would let them run her through in an effort to stop this from happening.

"Stop."

The word escapes his mouth before he's even thought it, and Liv turns to him in shock. He feels tears itching at the waterline of his eyes, threatening to escape him, while his throat burns with a sob he refuses to let loose.

"It's okay, love." Alistair glances to Anora, his eyes entreating, and he's surprised to see the regretful look on her face when he does. She gives the slightest hint of a nod, and he nods in return. With a commanding swipe of her hand, the guards release him.

Liv is in his arms in a flash, throwing her arms around his neck in a vice-like grip. Alistair buries his face in her hair, because he wants to drown himself in her before he goes. He feels her shoulders shake in his embrace, and his chest heaves sharply when a single sob escapes him. He rains kisses upon her hair because he cannot find the words to tell her how utterly precious she is to him, how he would die a thousand deaths as long as the last thing he ever knows is her, in his arms.

She lifts her head to kiss him, and the desperate press of her mouth against his is dizzying. His heart is threatening to rip from his chest and for a moment he hopes he will fade into the oblivion of her lips.

But then he is ripped from her arms, and the iron press of gauntlets against his armor rips him from the bliss of her skin. He is only vaguely aware of her desperate sobs, tries to block her out as she screams his name, and as the guards drag him forcibly away from the woman who holds his very life force within her eyes, all he can tell her is that _he loves her, he loves her, he loves her,_ and _thank you, thank you, thank you._


	5. Morning Coffee

Modern AU, mild NSFW.

* * *

Alistair wakes with a start, because it's been a long time since he's awoken to an empty bed on a weekend. He's not sure what it is that wakes him, but the space beside him is cold from the fall air and he wonders how long he's been asleep without her.

He stretches languidly and makes half an effort to remember where any of his clothes ended up the night before. He hadn't exactly been focused on where they went, only that they be _away,_ and maybe one of these days he'll be able to stay coherent enough around her to remember these sorts of things, but he very much doubts it.

He finds his jeans flung carelessly across her dresser, and decides they're good enough, pulling them low on his hips with intent.

She's in the kitchen, and the sight of her steals his breath the way wind steals a flame. So that's where his shirt ended up.

She's perched with her elbows on the countertop, a cup of steaming coffee clutched lovingly in her long fingers, concentrating on something outside her window. With the way she's leaning, the oversized button-up rides up just enough to expose the full curve of her backside, and he has to shake his head to stop himself from staring too long. It's nearly impossible.

She hears his low hum of appreciation and awards him with an affectionate smile. "Hope you don't mind," she says, and her voice is soft and still heavy with sleep. "I didn't feel like wearing pants."

And thank the Maker for that. The shirt is taunting him now, bunches in his hands as they slide against her hips, and he's overwhelmed by the need to feel her bare skin. He pulls her against his chest and presses a kiss to the curve of her neck. He can taste the sweat he earned the night before and grins against her skin. "It looks good on you." His voice is gruff, not from sleep but from the desire for her that he can never seem to quench. She stretches like a cat under his ministrations, grinding against his arousal with the same slow roll of her hips that seems to be getting him into trouble quite a lot these days.

His mouth travels the up the expanse of her neck to find soft flesh behind her ear that always elicits his favorite sounds, and he's rewarded with her tiny gasp of surprise. He slides the hem of the shirt up over her hips, and groans when he finds that his shirt is indeed the _only_ thing she's bothered to put on.

Her breathy laugh sends another current of need through him, but she sets aside her coffee cup. Her hand lifts to thread through his hair and still his questing mouth.

"Alistair, I'm trying to get us _out_ of bed, not back into it."

She twists in his embrace to look up at him, and her eyes widen in surprise when she meets his. He's grinning wickedly at her.

"That's really fine with me, because I wasn't planning on taking you there." He barely recognizes his own voice, laced with filthy suggestion, and she seems so surprised – and was that lust? – by the huskiness of his voice that she doesn't even laugh when he wags his eyebrows at her. "If you know what I mean."

She seems to make up her mind, then, and hops up on the edge of the counter, wrapping her muscular thighs around his waist and pulling him into her kiss. As he rips the shirt from her lithe frame and buttons clatter to the tile floor, he thinks absently that he didn't really like it on her all that much after all.


	6. It's about time!

Some married King and Queen smut. NSFW.

* * *

Torture.

This is pure, delirious torture.

She is dancing precariously at the rocky precipice, her legs shaking with exhaustion. She feels a brief flash of gratitude for the broad shoulders that are holding them up, but that gratitude is quelled by blind madness as her ascent comes to an abrupt halt, _once again_.

Olivia's strangled sob is far louder than she intends it to be. She glares down the dark expanse of her bare skin, dappled with sweat and trembling with carefully cultivated desperation, at the source of her frustration. Alistair's face rises from between her thighs, giving her a smug grin in response. He wipes her arousal from his chin with his free hand. His other is pressed against her abdomen, pinning her hips to the bed. Her walls give an ardent twitch when he pulls away, and the intensity of it sends shudders up her spine.

"Is something wrong, my love?" His words are innocent, but the mouth that speaks them is sinful, low and sultry and full of wicked suggestion.

Oh, she is going to _kill_ him.

She has so many things she wants to say to him. Something about revenge, something about a bastard. But when she opens her mouth, it is his name that falls out, carried on the breath of a gasp. He laughs, the breath ghosting against her thigh as he hovers above her.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific, _my Queen_." He presses his teeth into the flesh of her hipbone, and she jolts helplessly under his firm hand. Violent fists twist in the fine sheets below her, and a growl grinds in her throat.

"Alistair Theirin, if you do not stop teasing me, I am going to divorce you," she snaps. The words come out more of a pitiful whine than she had intended. She punctuates the threat with a weak kick of her leg against his bare back.

He only laughs at her, letting his lips blaze a path of tormenting heat around her belly button and down, leaving scorch marks everywhere except the place she so desperately needs him.

Olivia bucks her hips again, trying anything, anything to bring his Maker-cursed tongue back to her. Alistair's eyes glint with mirth as he takes in her wrecked expression. His free hand flutters across the expanse of her bare skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, before finding its destination. He cups her breast, and his hands are blazing hot, sending another shot of fire straight to her center. He flicks her nipple with his thumb, and chuckles when she responds with a low moan.

Time has lost all meaning, and she feels as though he has been doing this for days - _years_ , even. Her entire body is on fire, shaking and weak from the several times he has already denied her release, just to build it back up again. She feels as though every nerve in her body has burst into flame. He has learned her body well enough to read it like a book. To play every spot and gasp and jerk like a bloody instrument. She cannot decide whether this is agony or ecstasy or both.

She is contemplating using the leverage of her thighs around his shoulders to flip them when he finally, _blessedly_ , lowers his head once more to slide his clever tongue across the length of her labia. The long, shuddering moan that escapes her is utterly _filthy_ , and Alistair responds with a lustful grunt. Her abandoned climax has returned with a vengeance. It lurks just out of reach and coils so tight in her abdomen that she feels as though she'll explode. His touches are still light, teasing, and Olivia wants to weep in her desperation.

His hand leaves her breast and his tongue leaves her core. She has the briefest moment to mourn the loss of it before she feels his fingers slide against her soaked folds. She cries out in ecstasy and lifts her hand to grab at her hair, if only for something to ground herself with.

His fingers slide into her heat with ease, aided as they are by her near frenzied state of arousal. Her walls clench like a vice around them. Alistair pauses to watch her face contort, as he always does, before he exhales in wonder.

" _Maker_ , you're wet," he breathes, and his voice is husky with need.

" _Alistair_." She snarls his name like a crazed animal, and it is all the prompting he needs. He descends back to her center, and as his lips close around her clit, he crooks his fingers inside her. She all but screams, overwhelmed, with a wild buck of her hips against the hand that still presses against her belly. Her entire body jolts at the sensation. She is at the edge of madness, blind with the white heat the overtakes her. He is careful and precise in the movement of his fingers, making sure to hit the same spot with each thrust. Every press against that spot makes her vision burst with blinding color. She can hear her own voice sobbing, chanting "yes, yes, _yesyesyes_ ," in delirious breaths as she writhes against him, bucks her hips and presses her heels into his back, pulls at her hair so hard that pain bites against her scalp, but it's all distant, foggy, dreamlike.

Finally, Alistair presses his tongue against her swollen clit and sucks. His fingers hit _just right_ at the same moment, and the dam inside her shatters. She falls over the edge with a shout, and her body arcs off the bed. She goes blind and deaf as her orgasm burns through her, and she is only vaguely aware that she is weeping at the intensity. Alistair moans with her, and continues to pump his fingers in time with the contractions of her walls around him.

When she finally regains her senses, she pushes weakly at him with her hands, and he chuckles. A last, feather-light kiss to her abused clit causes her to jolt. He lowers her legs from his shoulders to dangle off the edge of the bed and rises from his crouched position on the floor.

Her body still shudders with the aftershocks as he lowers himself gingerly beside her. She can do nothing but lie boneless as he pulls her into his arms and buries his face into her neck with a satisfied hum. Her heart swells with affection at the feel of his arms around her abdomen, the muscles of his chest pressed against the skin of her back.

"Alright?" he murmurs against the shell of her ear. The vibration of his voice sends shivers across her skin, and it prickles with gooseflesh.

"Mmm." She doesn't think she has the capacity for words. His low chuckle rumbles against her neck.

"Yes, well, it's about time! Took you long enough."

She rolls her rear against his still-persistent erection, trailing lazy fingers into his hair.

"Alistair. My darling. My husband. My wonderful king." He grins against her neck and nuzzles his nose against her sweat-soaked skin.

"Hmmm?"

"I'm going to kill you."


End file.
